Meg Maguire - Taking Him Down

“Maguire succeeds in socking us with a sterling combo of love, loyalty, family, sweat and tears.

4½ stars!”

—RT Book Reviews

“Making Him Sweat is the first book in a brand new series by Meg Maguire…that centres around MMA. You know what that means, right? Hot, sweaty, half naked men. I’m there. I can expect only good things from Maguire!” —Under the Covers

“If you enjoy reading about super sexy boxers who like to get down and dirty, then definitely give this book a try.”

—Blithely Bookish

“[F]ull of interesting, likable characters and sexy love scenes.”

—Fiction Vixen

“I loved this book! Jenna and Mercer share some delicious sexual tension, but thankfully

Ms Maguire does not torture her readers.

I definitely recommend this book and am looking forward to reading the sequel.”

—Badass Book Reviews

“I love fight books…especially where old school boxing meets the more modern MMA style.

This cute book had so many great characters and a good old-fashioned romance.”

—Nocturne Romance Reads

Before becoming a writer, MEG MAGUIREworked as a record-store snob, a lousy barista, a decent designer and an overenthusiastic penguin handler. Now she loves writing sexy, character-driven stories about strong-willed men and women who keep each other on their toes…and bring one another to their knees. Meg lives north of Boston with her husband. When she’s not trapped in her own head, she can be found in the kitchen, the coffee shop or jogging around the nearest duck-filled pond.

Meg Maguire

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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For Ruthie and Serena, cherished sparring partners in all things wonked and wordy.

And thanks, as always, to my editor, Brenda.

Don’t mess with her—she’s been trained.

“NOT TIGHT ENOUGH. Start over.”

Though the guy suppressed his frustration well, Rich knew he was getting cussed out in the privacy of the teenager’s head.

Tough shit, kid. Get yourself a paid fight and you can be the colossal dick for a night .

The gauze was obediently unwound from Rich’s palm, the elaborate process started all over.

Mercer cut through the locker room chaos carrying a tub of Vaseline. According to the promotional materials, he was Rich’s trainer. In truth, Rich trained himself. He liked it that way, not having to answer to anybody. But after tonight he’d be committing to a manager, landing a deal with a major mixed martial arts organization. He’d get hauled out of Boston and obscurity and shipped out west to train under a team of MMA specialists. Saddled with a half dozen guys riding his back about every mile he ran, every forkful of food or drop of booze that passed his lips, every last detail that led up to him stepping into the ring.

Oh frigging well . Price of success.

“You look good,” Mercer said, crouching and unscrewing the tub’s lid.

“You look real pretty, too, Merce.”

“You look calm . If you’re faking it, keep it up.” He smeared Rich’s temples, cheeks and forehead, to reduce the friction when he took a shot to the face.

When Rich’s hands were finally wrapped and taped to his satisfaction, Mercer passed him his fingerless MMA gloves.

“Where’s your mouth guard?”

“Quit fussing, grandma—I got everything organized. Go celebrate for a few minutes.” Mercer’s actual trainee, Delante, had won his first real pro fight twenty minutes earlier, with a skull-thumper of a closing punch. “Get that kid cleaned up for the press and tell him not to mumble.”

“Fine. I’ll be back.” Mercer slapped Rich’s shoulder and took off.

Rich tugged on his gloves, gave his fists a squeeze. Nice and snug. He liked the feeling with the medical tape in place, that promise of a proper scrap, no sparring tonight.

He was a good fighter—a hell of a good fighter, if you factored in how DIY his regimen was—but he had more than that going. He was six-three and had made weight at 204. He was built and goddamn good-looking, and had what his late mentor called “the magic.” That thing you can’t build in a gym or find in a supplement bottle. That thing that made guys want to hit you and made their girlfriends want to wake up in your bed.

Nobody respected a pretty face inside the ring, and that suited Rich fine. Whatever had people hungry to see him lose, bring it on. Whatever had opponents hating him for winning, whatever had promoters eager to give him another match. Love and hate felt the same when you were high on adrenaline, and your detractors shelled out the same money for tickets as your fans did. That hate-ability plus a solid win tonight and Rich would get signed. Give it nine months and a couple decent matches and he’d be on the magazine covers, courted by equipment and vitamin companies for the right to slap his face on their ads. Whether it’d still be so pretty by then…

Didn’t matter. Rich would win, he’d sign, his future manager would handle the offers. He’d suck it up and take whatever orders his training team barked, and he’d be successful. Of that, he had no doubt.

But he wasn’t hungry for that—fame or attention.

He was hungry for a fight, sure. That was a perk. But the thing that lit a fire in his gut, made him salivate for this moment, was the money.

Fifteen grand when he won tonight. Down the road, once he signed—twenty, thirty, fifty and up, plus the endorsement deals. And he’d lease his face to whoever offered him the fattest checks, and cash them with no qualms.

It might not be honorable, but Rich Estrada fought for money. Because fighting was the thing he was good at, the diploma he’d never earned, the only marketable talent he had.

He fought because if he didn’t, his mom would be dead inside a year.

THE ARENA WAS in turns dim and blinding, the air pungent with a hundred clashing aromas. Lindsey Tuttle was planted in the thick of it, three rows from the action and close enough to hear every kick and punch and grunt.

The cage was eight-sided, walled in by chain-link, and it held two bloodthirsty opponents—just names off a fight card, men Lindsey didn’t know beyond their records and vital stats.

She leaned in toward her boss and friend, Jenna, to shoutwhisper, “Who’s winning?”

“I dunno.” On closer inspection, she saw that Jenna’s eyes were squeezed shut. It seemed she’d reached her capacity for spectating during the previous match, watching with her hands clamped to her mouth as her boyfriend, Mercer’s young protégé, had won his first big fight. It hadn’t been too bloody—a lot of rolling around, then one wince-worthy punch that sprayed red across Delante’s opponent’s cheek. It had dropped the guy’s limbs like deadweight and had the ref announcing a knockout halfway through the third round.